Picture Perfect (12 page)

“Come on,” Justine harangues, “you were going to come out for my poetry reading on Friday anyway. Just make a week of it.”

A sort of gurgling sound comes from the back of my throat, which Justine takes as a sign of wavering.

“You know you want to.”

“Sometimes you can’t do what you want.”

“And sometimes you should anyway. Especially you. Besides, you could rule the world with that ridiculous phone of yours. Why not use it for more than ordering late-night pizza?”

I glance down at the iPhone poking out of the top of my purse. Justine is right. With my phone and my laptop, I would still be able to check in on things. And with photography not actually starting until next week, a few days away wouldn’t be
totally
unthinkable. And like Rebecca said earlier, at this stage of the production, most of my work is already done. After all the crew has been hired, the casting completed, and the locations scouted, producing is just a lot of babysitting. Not that babysitting is easy in Hollywood. There are egos to stroke, unions to please, monies to manage, and a whole host of little details that have a way of gumming up the works. But I’ve already done most of the dirty work. Now is when I usually sit back and watch it all come together. And with an outside production company running the day-to-day business of the filming, there’s really very little to worry about.   

God, I have
some
resolve.

“Okay,” I say with a Titanic-sized load of trepidation. “I’ll catch a red eye tonight.”

“Okay? You’re actually going to do it?”

“Yes, but stop acting so surprised. You knew I was going to come the moment you suggested it.” I hang up, feeling just a little less of a mess.

That settled, I decide to take care of one final matter before officially departing for my “vacation” and head back up the stairs to the twelfth floor and down the hallway to the new Marketing Manager’s office. Jennifer’s office.

She peers up at me from behind a pair of Dolce and Gabbana glasses, probably acquired to give her the appearance of intellect. I don’t remember her ever needing specs before.

“Lauren,” she beams, getting up from her new desk to greet me.

I’m no longer Ms. Tate now that she’s no longer a lowly assistant.

She motions for me to sit in her guest chair. “I’m so glad you stopped by.”

“I’m not staying long,” I say, stepping into the office, but ignoring her request to take a seat.

My refusal to sit is taken as a jab, judging by her wide eyes and peaked brows. “Oh?” she questions, a slight squeak in her voice. Jennifer may not be a meager assistant anymore, but she still isn’t a VP.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be in New York for the next few days, but I’ll be available online and by phone should anything come up that you need help managing on
A True Heart
.”

“Oh,” she says again, this time with a notable lack of enthusiasm. She recovers quickly, though, adding in “That’s great. I’ll make a note of it.”

“Jennifer,” I continue, “I appreciate you pitching in while I take care of a few…personal details. But it won’t really be much of a bother. I already have everything pretty well in hand. You basically just need to make sure the ship stays on course.”

“Absolutely,” she replies, an artificial grin plastered across her face.

“Hopefully, you picked up enough working under me to head off any icebergs should they pop up on the horizon.”

“Of course,” she says, “who better to learn from?”

“No one,” I reply with the kind of tone that lets her know
I
know she’s not innocent in this whole affair.

She comes around her desk, stopping inches in front of me. I’d say she’s staring me down, but being half a foot shorter than me, all she can do is stare
up
at me. Still, she does her best to intimidate, pushing her designer frames further up the bridge of her nose and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Lauren, I hope you know that I didn’t plan for things to happen this way, but now that they have, I’m making the best of the situation.”

“The
situation
?”

“Let’s not make this worse for you than it is already.”

I really want to slap that indignant little bitch across the mouth, but I refuse to be baited. “I’m just looking out for you, too, Jennifer. I’d hate to see your first attempt at producing go down in flames before you even get your feet wet.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m completely wet.”

I cock an eyebrow at her.

“You know what I mean,” she spits, her youth clearly evident.

I can’t imagine this girl holding her own in a contract negotiation when she can’t even deliver a retort with any sort of panache. The girl is toast.

“You have my number.”

And with that, I turn my back on her and stomp back down to my office, just a little pleased with myself. Nothing makes me happier than tripping up a chippy.

Sally sees me marching toward her and leaps up from her cubicle, a worried look on her face.

“What is it?”

Her mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. Instead, she tips her head in the direction of my office. I look through the doorway to find Jack sitting in my guest chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his head hanging low.

“Jack?” I say, stepping into my office and closing the door on Sally’s curious face.

He lifts his head and offers me a weak smile. “Hey.”

I press my lips together, not quite sure what to say.

“I was afraid to come here,” he says. “Afraid you wouldn’t want to see me.”

I just stare at him blankly. My wretched face has to be explanation enough for my silence.

“The cops are investigating the, the
incident
,” he says. The calm in his demeanor is belied by the smallness of his voice.

     “I know. They came to my place this morning.” I take a seat across from him, my big mahogany desk like a barrier between us.

“You know that I only hit him to protect you.”

“Of course I know that. And that’s exactly what I told the police. Surely, they will drop the case when they understand what really happened. That it was truly all Alan’s doing.”

“Yeah, but I’m not worried about that so much. I’m worried about you. And me. Us.”

“Us?” I say, my insides practically freezing solid at the sound of the words. As much as I’d love to indulge this fantasy, it simply can’t go on any further. To allow that would be to the detriment of my career and his.

“I don’t want this to come between us.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. But there can’t be an ‘us.’ Not until all of this is resolved. And even then…I don’t know.”

Jack comes around the desk and kneels next to me, spinning me around in my chair to face him. Except for the pained expression on his face, I’d think he’s about to propose.

“I don’t want to be a complication in your life.”

“A complication?”

“You know what I mean. Trouble. I’m not trouble.” He takes my hands in his. “I don’t want you to brush me aside just because of a hiccup.”

“A hiccup?” I pull my hands away. “My husband is trying to have you convicted of assault.”

“It won’t hold up.”

“Of course it won’t, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be damages. To my reputation and to yours.”

“Lauren—”

“No, it’s better this way. I’ll fix things with Alan. In the meantime, it’s best if our relationship is strictly professional.”

“That isn’t what I want.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want.”

Jack throws me a look like I kicked him in the gut.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I try to explain. “I mean, it
is
complicated right now. And I like you, I really, really like you, but it isn’t right. I’m going through what is clearly becoming a very nasty divorce, and I don’t want you to end up getting hurt. It’s just better if our interactions remain above board.”

“Above board,” he says, getting to his feet. “You sound like a lawyer.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”

“So, I guess I’ll just see you around the set, then.” His tone is bitter, but I know that’s just his pride smarting.

“Actually, I’m taking time off for the next couple of weeks.”

“Because of me?”

“No. Because of me. And Alan. And everything going to hell in my personal life in a very public way.”

He narrows his eyes. “You mean, you’ve been fired?” Before I can answer him he exclaims, “Then I quit!”

“No!” I screech, clinging to the very last fibers at the end of my rope. “You can’t quit. I’m still executive producer on this picture. I’m still running the show. If you leave, you don’t just hurt the film, you hurt me.”

He seems to crumple in on himself. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Just do your job. Go to rehearsals, show up to the set on time; and in two weeks, I’ll be back in charge.”

He sucks in his lower lip. “The only reason I agreed to star in this picture was because I wanted to work with you. Not some flunky.”

“You
are
working with me. My fingerprints are all over this film. I promise you, I won’t let it flop.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Is everything just all business with you?” he asks, gaping at me. “Don’t you care about
more
than your reputation? Don’t you care about us?”

“Of course. I just—why exactly are you upset?” I ask, befuddled by his vulnerability. Jack is obviously much more sensitive than I ever anticipated.

“Forget it,” he says, turning his back on me and flinging open my door. He glances back at me with what I can only assume is pity before walking through it.

I stare at the open doorway for a minute, wondering if I’m supposed to go after him. And I would, except for the sudden feeling of relief that washes over me. 

Chapter 9

The sound of the captain’s voice rouses me from an uneasy sleep in my First Class seat and alerts me to the fact that we are preparing to land at JFK in a few minutes. I lift open the window shade and find the early morning sun shining on the familiar skyline of Manhattan. Within moments, our plane soars beyond the skyscrapers, past the East River and over the sandy shoreline of Long Island. The view is so crystal clear that I can even see the sandbars beneath the ocean’s surface. I take a deep breath.

I’m home.

No, I didn’t grow up in New York. I’ve never even
lived
in New York. But it is still my home. It is the one place on this earth (and believe me, I’ve been to many) where I don’t feel like I have to work so damn hard at being Lauren Tate, high-powered TV Executive, twenty-four hours a day. It may seem counterintuitive, but in Manhattan, I can relax. Knowing that every move I make isn’t being scrutinized by industry insiders, gives me a certain sense of freedom I never feel in Los Angeles. And it isn’t just being on vacation that provides such liberty. It’s the city of New York itself.

I know that America considers itself a melting pot, but there really is no state or city that can claim more diversity than the Big Apple. But it isn’t just that. Los Angeles, after all, is a cauldron bubbling over with different cultures, ethnicities and classes. But in the City of Angels, the pot doesn’t get stirred all that frequently. Instead, its contents are dissected and sectioned off into geographical quadrants. So, even though I live and work in the heart of a cosmopolitan city, due to its sprawling nature, I rarely see or interact with anyone other than white, upper class, entertainment types. Manhattan on the other hand, is a twenty-three square mile island crawling with millions of people from every walk of life. And with that many people mingling on such a small patch of land, no one has the time or patience to be anything but
real
.

And I am reminded of this fact the moment we land. Despite having spent more than three grand on my seat, I am ushered off the plane by a toothy flight attendant whose impending date with a stock analyst seated two rows behind me far outweighs any concern she might have for my status as a VIP in the entertainment industry. Finally released from the narrow cabin, I elbow my way through the long, white corridors of JFK International Airport.

A seasoned pro at air travel, I out-maneuver all the amateur tourists and visiting relatives as they fumble along searching for wayward belongings. Skating past their overstuffed luggage and baby carriages, I bypass Baggage Claim altogether and launch myself toward the exit. The automatic doors slide open and a whoosh of bitter cold air flurries the wool scarf I’d so deftly wrapped around my neck only moments before, knowing how deceiving the winter sun can be outside of Los Angeles.

I inhale deeply, enjoying the bite of the crisp wind, and wheel my carry-on to the edge of the curb where I jut my hand into the air. Within seconds, a yellow cab rushes to my feet and out pops a rotund, grizzled-looking cabbie. He hurries around to grab my bag and tosses it in the trunk. I am swept into the back seat with a wave of his hand where I nuzzle under my wool coat and scarf as a familiar warmth spreads through my chest. There isn’t a wind cold enough that could chill my heart right now.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks after he piles into the front seat.

“The Village. Near Washington Square Park. Eleventh and Fifth Ave.”

I burrow into the seat cushion, sinking down so that my head just barely crests the window. I stare out at the winter landscape. Bare trees and sloping, brown hillsides quickly turn to grey duplexes and two-story office buildings. But soon, in the distance, I can see the tall, steel and concrete city rising before me. The familiar peak of the Empire State Building, the art deco design of the Chrysler Building, and up ahead, the iconic Brooklyn Bridge.

On the other side lies freedom.

At least for a few days, anyway.

A few days of drinking wine in dark bars with Justine, of poring over dusty, old books at the Strand Bookstore, of eating pizza so simple and delicious you wish you had two stomachs, and of course, a few days just to be anonymous. Taking tea alongside neighborhood
yentas
gossiping about the misguided youth of today, eavesdropping on stock analysts discussing the demise of Wall Street over chili-cheese dogs, and taking in the works of French masters from Monet to Manet as art history students at The Met debate their use of color. And not once hearing anyone bragging about their weekend grosses, bitching about their skyrocketing production budget, or haggling over the cost of catering a wrap party.